Nevermore
by 0positiv
Summary: Being the "Domestic Staff of the World" does have its dangers... -AU, dark-ish, be warned ;)


**AN: This is AU, and it's dark...-ish. Don't say I didn't warn you ;) As always, I don't own anything Being Human related, only the plot is mine.**

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He had often wondered how he would die. Not an unusual thought for someone in his profession. He had seen colleagues go out one night with jokes on their lips only to zip a body bag closed over a well-known face that would never smile again a few hours later. Dealing with creatures like that was never free of risks. And it was always those who love the thrill too much who paid the ultimate price.

And yet, no one was ever safe, no matter how careful, how efficient, how experienced. He had no illusions in this matter. He always knew the chances of his dying of old age were very slim. It was always a dangerous balance between arriving too late and having to deal with too many witnesses or risking encountering the killers by being too early.

They had not been too early on this disastrous night, no, the body had been long cold and well hidden in a dirty little alley. But the killers were patient, lying in wait for them, blending in with the darkness. They killed his men with a well practiced efficiency he couldn't help but admire. Like a group of lions cornering their prey, falling on them swiftly and mercilessly. One of them, clearly the leader, stood back and watched, smiling. They took their time, knowing their prey couldn't escape. Knowing they wouldn't call for help. Knowing they would rather die then risk exposing what they had worked so hard at hiding.

Just as he knew that running would be of no use. All he could do was wait and watch them kill the men under his command, men he was responsible for. Closing his watch with a sigh half born from regret half from anger he stood his ground as they circled around him like sharks, watching him with demon eyes, smiling with mouths dripping red, yet they made no move to kill him. And he in turn did not acknowledge them, they were irrelevant, they were clearly not allowed to harm him.

He kept his eyes on the leader as the dark figure slowly walked towards him, hands slapping together in mocking applause. Meaningless words of praise and ridicule were spat in his face, bouncing off his armour of cool detachment as he waited calmly for the end. He would not engage in fruitless banter with this creature. He was prepared to die here and now but he was not going to give them the satisfaction of making him beg.

He could see that his lack of reaction frustrated them, they had expected sport, a raging storm, and all they received was a calm and tranquil sea. He didn't have to wait long for the leader to lose patience with his silent captive.

He had expected it to hurt. He had seen too many of their victims, throats torn to shreds, to not think about the agony they would have gone through before death freed them of all suffering. But he could never have prepared himself for this white hot pain that seared a path from his neck to his brain. It took all of his strength of will to keep silent. He forced himself to remain calm and quiet but he couldn't stop the tears flowing down his face. He couldn't stop the thoughts of anger and regret and fear chasing themselves around his mind, pounding like his heartbeat, like the blood roaring in his ears.

He did not want for it to end like this, it could not end like this. And in his pain he might have whispered that raging thought out loud because suddenly the creature drew back, a devious smile stretching across its face before it said words that made his blood run cold, before it decide that their fun might not be ending quite yet. As he drifted off into the deceptively comforting embrace of unconsciousness he feared what might happen next.

It was night when he woke up. Sitting up he found himself on top of the roof of one of the houses. The alley below was empty, the bodies taken away and the killers long since fled. Only he remained, hidden away like a dog's stash of bones. Absentmindedly he straightened his stained grey suit, pulled his waistcoat down, re-tied his tie. Having died was no excuse for bad attire. He pulled out his pocket watch to check the time uttering a curse under his breath when he saw that the glass was cracked. The clock was still ticking though, damaged but functioning, like its owner. He snapped it shut again, looking around for a way off this roof.

It was time to get cleaned up, get a change of clothes. It should not take him more then half an hour. Afterwards he would deal with the hunger he felt growing in his body. There was no time for regrets or looking back. He would do as he always did, make the best of any given situation and be as efficient about it as possible.


End file.
